


What's Wrong, Baby?

by FervidAsAFlame



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Pet Names, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3514610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FervidAsAFlame/pseuds/FervidAsAFlame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's mouth snaps shut and his body goes rigid under John's hands. Those sharp eyes swing from the ceiling and focus on John, boring in.</p><p>"What did you call me?"</p><p>John tries a pet name. It doesn't go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Wrong, Baby?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrumpiestCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpiestCat/gifts).



> Happy (belated) birthday to my buddy [GrumpiestCat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpiestCat/pseuds/GrumpiestCat)! When we were chatting a couple of weeks ago, you said you’d love to read a fic where John tried out pet names on Sherlock and he was having none of it. This was my interpretation of what might happen, rendered in the filthiest way possible. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Also, many thanks to the lovely [FoiledMonsters](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FoiledMonsters/pseuds/FoiledMonsters) for the brilliant beta work despite dealing with a lot of real life crap. I still don't understand what the difference between an em and en dash is, but I'm glad you do!
> 
> To you lovely readers: this is the first fic I've posted in probably 15 years, so go easy on an old lady.

It happens on a lazy Thursday afternoon. 

They don’t have a case on, but for the better part of a week, Sherlock has been completely absorbed in a complicated experiment involving at least a dozen fingers and twice as many types of industrial cleaners. 

After ensuring that all body parts and harsh chemicals will be properly disposed of, John has been content to leave Sherlock to his work. They’ve only been sleeping together a couple of months, but he’s well aware that when Sherlock reaches this level of involvement his body - whether it needs sleep, nourishment or sex - will be made to wait until his brain is satisfied. And so John's body will have to wait too. 

Which was why on this particular afternoon when Sherlock appears in the living room, eyes shining and goggles finally pushed up on his forehead, John wastes no time herding him into the bedroom and getting stripped down.

Lying in bed beside each other -- Sherlock sprawled with his right arm thrown up above his head, John curled at his side -- Sherlock gazes unseeingly at the ceiling and begins reciting his extensive findings while idly tracing circles onto the warm skin of John’s shoulder. John hums encouragingly at the appropriate spots, but his mind isn't on the patterns prolonged exposure to bleach make under decomposing fingernails. Instead, it’s delighting in the fact that Sherlock’s body so readily responded to his touch, despite the fact that his brain is thoroughly occupied elsewhere.

Sherlock’s monologue never stops, not while John runs the palms of his hands over Sherlock’s bicep, across his abdomen, down his leg and back up again. It continues as he traces his fingertips slowly over the pale, smooth skin of his inner thighs, doesn’t falter even as John watches his cock slowly plump and then grow erect. He doesn’t seem to notice when John leans over him to grab the lube off the nightstand, shifts down on the bed and rubs a slick finger in slow circles on his perineum. 

John hopes this isn’t becoming some kind of a fetish -- listening to pH levels and caustic reactions recited whilst being largely ignored. Because the fact that above the waist Sherlock is completely composed while below the waist John has pushed one leg up at the knee to give himself better access sends a curl of arousal down his spine. 

Sherlock is describing the chemical structure of the most common cleaning solutions when John dips his fingers back to massage his entrance. The tight muscle flutters under his touch and after a moment he’s able to slip the tip of one finger just inside. John's eyes flicker up to Sherlock's face to see if that registers, but Sherlock gives no indication that he’s been breached. Emboldened, John slides the tip out, circling the rim, and then plunges back in to the second knuckle. 

That gets a bit of a hitched breath, but still no eye contact, and the deductions spin on. John doesn't bother to hide the grin or his hum of approval as he reaches for more lube. He twists a second finger into that tight heat while closing a slicked fist over Sherlock's now fully erect cock. Sherlock trips over his words just a bit but continues stubbornly on about the implications of his results on the petty criminals of London. John lets out a full throated moan and twists his hips to rut against the mattress. His fist settles into a rhythm of strokes in time with the slide of two fingers into his partner's receptive body. 

Maybe it’s the filthy squelching noises the lube is making, or the way his fingers are disappearing over and over into that tight heat. Maybe it’s just that John can tell by the cadence of Sherlock's words that he’s nearing the end of his lecture. Maybe it’s that, without pausing, Sherlock’s planted his foot in the mattress so he can thrust up into John's fist. Whatever it is, John knows he’s made a mistake as soon as he says it.

"Oh yeah, baby."

Sherlock's mouth snaps shut and his body goes rigid under John's hands. Those sharp eyes swing from the ceiling and focus on John, boring in. 

"What did you call me?"

"Ahh." He doesn't answer, but does gingerly slip his fingers out of Sherlock’s arse. 

"John. Is this some kind of … infantilization fetish?"

"No!" John looks up, alarmed, but Sherlock has a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. John fights the flush that’s threatening to colour his cheeks. "It's just. It's something people ... say. Sometimes. During sex." 

"You've never said it before."

"Yeah, and I certainly won't be trying it again," John mutters, releasing Sherlock's cock and wiping his sticky hand on the sheets. Sherlock is still studying him with that inscrutable gaze.

“What?” he asks, a bit defensively. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums, shifting his eyes back to the ceiling. ”I wouldn’t have taken you for the pet name type. You certainly never used them on any of your previous girlfriends.”

“Previous. Implying that I currently have a girlfriend?” John asks, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock ignores him.

“And ‘baby’. The worst of them all. Makes me think of terrible heterosexual pornography.”

“They say it in gay porn too,” John protests, which only earns him Sherlock’s intense stare again.

“I still can’t believe that I actually accepted it when you bellowed your heterosexuality all those years.”

“‘Not gay’ isn’t the same as ‘straight,’” and John hopes they aren’t going to get into that argument again, because he’d really rather go back to what they'd been doing before his slip-up. 

“Still. ‘Baby’. No, I don’t think it’s working for me.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, it wasn’t meant to be a whole thing, it just slipped out,” he scrambles back to kneeling between Sherlock’s legs. “Now can we please,” he runs his fingertips lightly along Sherlock’s ankles, where he knows he’s sensitive, and relishes the little shiver that ripples up the man’s body.

“Fine, but no more diminutives,” Sherlock says with an air of finality, stretching his legs and hooking one foot behind John to tug him closer. 

“None,” John agrees, easing his chest against Sherlock’s and leaning in to brush their lips together. 

Then he makes his second mistake. 

“Can just stick with ‘Sherlock’ I guess. Even if it is a bit boring.”

He’d meant it to be teasing, but as soon as he says the words he wishes he could grab them out of the air and stuff them back in his mouth. It’s already too late -- Sherlock’s eyes have gone all dangerous and his arms clamp down on John’s back.

“Boring?” he practically purrs and before he knows it, Sherlock has somehow slipped from beneath him and swings his considerable weight on top of John, pushing him firmly face down into the mattress. John feels his cock twitch as the delicious frisson of being physically dominated curls down his spine. 

“I’ll show you boring, John Watson,” and apparently this is turning Sherlock on as well, because he grinds his cock down into the small of John’s back. He shuffles back, pinning John’s arms to his sides, and licks a long stripe from his tailbone to the nape of this neck. John exhales hard.

“From now on, you’re to say nothing but my name,” he rumbles low into John’s ear, lips just barely brushing his earlobe. “Understood?”

“Yes,” John practically hisses, eyes closed, neck arching up to make contact. 

“Uh uh uh,” Sherlock tuts, squeezing his wrists a little tighter. “Only my name.”

“Sherlock,” John breathes. 

“Good,” Sherlock releases his hands and arranges himself on his stomach between John’s legs. John folds his arms and rests his head on them, trying not to smile smugly. He feels Sherlock's hands kneading his arse for a moment, then a pause as he reaches for the lube. 

Another pause. He hears Sherlock set the lube down again without opening it. Can almost hear Sherlock's brain whirring in a direction that has nothing to do with caustic chemicals. He sucks in a breath. Another jolt of arousal shivers through his body as he realizes what Sherlock is contemplating. Without looking back, he shifts his thighs further apart in silent invitation. 

"Sherlock," just a whisper, a breath. Enough for Sherlock to make up his mind.

He grasps John's cheeks in his palms and spreads them gently but firmly. John feels wanton, exposed. He wants to arch his back, present himself. He does a bit, pushing his cock into the mattress. Sherlock holds him open as he teases, tracing his tongue lightly over his bollocks and rubbing his thumbs along the crease of his thighs. A deep groan escapes from John as Sherlock presses his tongue firmly against his perineum while his fingertips slide in to tease gently over his hole. John can feel every muscle in his pelvis spasming with pleasure. 

Sherlock shifts his hands to the side, lets his tongue flatten, and slowly drags it up over the knot of muscle.

"Ah! Sh-Sherlock," John whimpers at that first contact. A light sweat has already broken out over his body from the intensity of the sensation and holding his arse up. Sherlock must notice because he takes a moment to prop himself on his elbows and haul John back so he can get his knees under himself. And that feels even better, he thinks, as he stretches his back and rests his head back against his folded arms. 

Sherlock smoothes his large hands down the backs of his thighs and up again to rest at his hips before he attacks, this time pressing his flattened tongue directly over the twist of muscle and circling it. He alternates this with tracing around with the tip of his tongue and doesn't let up. 

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John manages to stick to the rule despite being awash in delicious sensation. 

For his part, Sherlock seems to be enjoying it as much as John. He makes affirmative grunts in response to each of John's cries, and the vibrations combined with Sherlock's tongue sliding over him have John gasping for breath. He begins chanting Sherlock's name softly on each exhale, turning the two syllables into an entreaty. 

Sherlock seems to understand, and presses his face in harder while one arm snakes around to close his fist over John's cock. At the same time, he stiffens his tongue and pushes it past the ring of loosened muscle. John makes a strangled sound that's not quite Sherlock's name, but not any other discernible word either. Sherlock presses his lips flush to John's skin and begins slowly fucking John with his tongue. He swipes the dripping head of John's cock with his thumb and matches pace, sliding down his shaft firmly. 

John's breathing harshly with just the hint of his voice at the end of each exhale. Sherlock withdraws his tongue and goes back to teasing it over his entrance. It feels so wet and dirty that John's just letting out a stream of broken moans at this point. It's so good, but he knows he needs more. 

"Sherlock," he says, trying to infuse fuck me into every syllable. "Ahh, Sherlock. Sherlock."

He's dangerously close to begging, but Sherlock, brilliant man, understands immediately. He gives John's cock a final tug and scrambles for the lube as he detaches his face from John's arse, giving it a light smack for good measure. He hears the snick of the lube’s cap, feels a cool drizzle, and there's a clatter as it's tossed to the floor. Sherlock's breathing hard as he moves up to press his chest against John's back. He presses a chaste kiss to John's nape before taking his cock in hand and guiding it in. 

There's little resistance, and in one smooth thrust Sherlock's fully seated. He pauses a moment to lean down and trace the edge of his nose along the side of John's neck before settling back into a rhythm. 

Each thrust is angled carefully to give John maximum pleasure, and with each jolt against his prostate he feels more open, like he's taking more of Sherlock in. The tight drag of Sherlock's cock over his rim grounds him a bit. He wants to whimper harder, faster but lets out Sherlock's name in a growl instead. 

Sherlock reacts instantly, balancing on one hand and moving the other to the back of John's neck. He squeezes firmly and starts thrusting in earnest. John starts to hiss Yes, but catches himself and lets out a guttural sound that he hopes indicates how close he is. His thighs are shaky and he can feel the orgasm building in his balls, racing toward a crescendo. 

"Sherlock!" he begs, gasping.

"John," Sherlock answers, and squeezes the back of his neck again, this time just this side of painful -- and that's it. John goes off untouched, moaning loudly as spurt after spurt of his release spills onto the sheets. Sherlock shifts his hand from John's neck to brace under his chest and smears open-mouthed kisses between his shoulder blades. 

John tries to get his breath and wants to tell Sherlock how intense that was, how amazing it felt, how he just needs another second. But he can hear Sherlock panting in his ear and can feel him still hard inside, so he says simply "Sherlock."

It's apparently enough of an invitation for him, because he pushes himself back a bit, grips John's hips and begins to chase his own orgasm. It doesn't take long, a couple dozen thrusts, before Sherlock digs his fingers into John's hips and cries out. He stays frozen, hunched over John, for several seconds before erratically thrusting several more times and unceremoniously collapsing. His comfortable weight pushes John into the mattress where they lay, sweat and breath mingling.

“If that was meant to discourage me from using pet names, sweetheart,” John laughs breathlessly, “then you did a horrible job.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock growls without any heat.

“Not if you’re going to fuck me like that, darling.”

Sherlock pulls out and rolls off, landing on his back. He throws an arm over his eyes and groans theatrically.

“What have I done?”

John chuckles again as he pushes himself up off the bed.

“I’ll go get us a flannel, love.”

Sherlock goes very still and quiet. He even seems to be holding his breath. John swears he can see the edge of a flush that has nothing to do with exertion staining Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Hmm,” John murmurs, flopping back on the bed and trying to pry Sherlock’s arm away from his face. “Have I found one you like, then?’

“No,” Sherlock insists too quickly, and brings up his other arm to join the first in crossing his face. John smiles fondly and pushes his arms up a bit to give him a soft, lingering kiss. After a moment, Sherlock’s arms drop and he cradles John’s face between his large hands. John pushes back his mussed curls and drops a kiss on his forehead.

“John.”

Sherlock's voice stops him as he’s almost to the door. He turns back with an eyebrow raised and returns to the side of the bed. Sherlock’s rolled to the edge and reaches out to clasp John's hands in his. His pale, naked body is stretched languorously and his earnest eyes capture John’s. For a moment his heart swells.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Very much.”

“I know, Sherlock.”

“Don’t call me baby.”

John laughs.

“Maybe you could try it on me next time instead?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it. He looks hard at John.

John just grins wolfishly and leans down to capture his mouth in a kiss.

“Hungry?” he murmurs against his lips. “I can order us something in?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock agrees, rolling over and shoving his arms under the pillows. John’s nearly to the kitchen when he hears Sherlock’s voice drift down the hall after him.

“Hurry back, baby.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you're so inclined, come hang out with me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/fervidasaflame) or [Tumblr](http://theresacinematicend.tumblr.com/)!


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